It's all over now
Imagine that someone starts telling you a story. It's a made up story, one you've never read in a book before. He tells you the tale in installments, a little at a time - maybe he starts in the middle and then later on fills you in on the beginning. Imagine that he takes 28 years to tell you the whole story. How do you feel when it finally ends, when he closes the book and says it's over?
I am suffering from PSWDD (Post Star Wars Depression Disorder). I realized this morning that it is really, finally over. Sure, there will be books and comics and possibly tv shows. But the movies, the big screen excitement, is all done.
In 1998 we had a fish named Boba Fett. Boba got sick and we flushed him down the toilet. I told the kids that it was just like Boba Fett going into the Sarlacc pit and that someday he, too, might find his way out.
Yes, my obsession runs deep (though not deep enough to be Level 3). But it's about more than naming fish after the characters or spending $120 on a lightsaber. It's about the story.
This fairy tale, this space opera, this swashbuckling adventure or whatever you want to call it has been slowly unraveled over the course of 28 years. In the time since I first laid my eyes on an imperial star destroyer until last week when the final credits to Revenge of the Sith rolled down the screen, the world has changed. My life has changed numerous times. I graduated high school, went to college, got married, had two kids, got divorce, got married again, bought a house. I grew up. And even with the long gaps in between chapters, I never forgot about it and never let it go. Sure, I put my Burger King Luke Skywalker glasses away and the Vader helmet collected dust in the attic, but the stories themselves never left my heart. Like I've done with the books I have loved over time, I kept the characters in my heart and mind because their stories were interwoven with my life. Yoda and Han were right in there with Kay from The Snow Queen or Lucy, Edmond and Peter. And just as I was saddened when I closed the last of the Narnia books, I am a bit sad now, that a story so long in the making and so glorious in its telling has come to an end.
It's like someone just walked into a room and said "Ok, time to put the toys away and grow up now!" No, I don't want to. You can't make me.
I'm having a serious case of PSWDD. I hate the sound (imagined or not) of a good book slamming closed.